


Nature Boy

by 221b_hound



Series: Guitar Man [56]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Family Drama, Gen, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 19:58:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The teen years are always trouble of a sort.  Ford Holmes is discovering all sorts of things about who he wants to be, and who he doesn't want to be - and he's afraid of what he thinks he's losing as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nature Boy

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from David Bowie's song Nature Boy, from the Moulin Rouge soundtrack:
> 
>  
> 
> _There was a boy,_  
>  A very strange enchanted boy.  
> They say he wandered very far,  
> very far over land and sea.  
> A little child and sailed about,  
> but very wise, was he.  
> And then one day, one magic day he passed my way,  
> while we spoke of many things Fools and Kings, this he said to me.  
> The greatest thing, you'll ever learn,  
> is just to love, and be loved in return.

The night before 14-year-old Ford Holmes sat for an advanced biology exam (part of his accelerated curriculum) his donor father returned, annoyed, from their revision session at St Bart's.

John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "It didn't go well, I take it? Did the whole thing stop making sense _in situ_? There's a huge difference between a diagram and an actual body."

John hadn't been convinced that showing a teenaged boy an actual autopsy was a good idea, but all three of Ford's parents felt a practical demonstration would be more engaging for his intellect, and Ford had seemed pretty blasé about it.  To John's knowledge, the only dissection Ford had ever baulked at was Archimedes'.

"There was nothing wrong with his understanding," said Sherlock impatiently, "Ford was simply being difficult."

And then Sherlock paused, a sour expression pursing his mouth, as though the very shape of that sentence offended him. He seemed to taste the words and then discard them, his expression losing its irritation.

"I don't think he'll pursue anatomy, regardless of the exam results," Sherlock said at last. He walked to the mantelpiece, to the picture of the late and indeed lamented goldfish, Archimedes, which Ford had drawn after their pet's death. "I suspect his scientific inclinations are more towards larger and more complex systems than single life forms.”

John considered this, then nodded. "He's always been fascinated by the Mars experiment; all that talk of terraforming in the future. Entire ecosystems might almost be a big enough challenge for that brain of his." Then he returned to his tablet and his medical journal.

"He won't be like me," said Sherlock into the quiet.

John looked up again.

"He's not comfortable with death," Sherlock continued, "He knows the science but it doesn't fascinate him like it does me. He says dead things aren’t as interesting as living things.” Sherlock allowed a small smile. “He said that several times, in fact.”

"Does that bother you?"

"No. Rather for the best, I think. It’s not easy to be me. To be like me. I'd certainly wish better for him."

They both knew there was another conversation happening underneath this one. John addressed it in his reply. "Violet will come round, Sherlock. She's at a difficult age."

Sherlock scowled, " _Difficult_. I used to be 'difficult'."

The sound of John not saying anything was quite loud. It made Sherlock smile. "You can say it, John."

"No," said John, "Because it’s not true. Not the way you’re thinking. There’s nothing wrong with you, or Ford or Violet for that matter. Violet behaving like a stroppy teen is not the same thing as being labelled as intrinsically wrong because of non-conformity. You’re no more difficult in that sense than I am."

“You can be quite difficult yourself on occasion.” Sherlock’s smile was teasing.

“I can be a right bastard on occasion,” agreed John, “And all I mean is that teenagers all have their rotten years. I’m not sure the new school is the best thing for her. She’s…”

“Yes, I know,” said Sherlock, more snappishly than he’d intended, “She’s establishing her boundaries, trying to fit with her peers, working out who she is and where she belongs.” He clenched his teeth on the retort _and it’s obviously not anywhere with me in it._

John frowned and rose to place his hand on his friend’s shoulder. "Sherlock. I know it's hard, what she's doing to you. I've tried talking to her but she's not ready to listen. This new school..." He trailed off. "There's no excuse. But it _will_ pass. She'll come back to you."

Sherlock tried to shrug like it didn't matter, though he knew he was fooling exactly no-one.

"And Ford will be fine.  He'll find his path, like you did."

Sherlock was sceptical, but he accepted John's assurances at face value. Some things he couldn't solve, merely endure, and he was an old hand at that.

**

Sherlock was already gone when John rose the next morning, pursuing some intellectual curiosity or case preliminaries, John assumed. He went about his own plans of reading, writing up a blog for the last case, some music rights administration and fervently wishing for a case soon that would provide a bit of stimulation. He was getting bored.

Stimulation came in an unfortunate and unwelcome manner in the late afternoon, by way of a phone call from Mycroft Holmes.

"John," Mycroft's tone could be mistaken for his usual urbane drawl, but only by someone who didn't actually know him, "Is Sherrinford visiting you?"

"I haven't seen him since Monday when we revised together for his biology exam. Want me to see if he's downstairs with Mrs Hudson?"

"The good Mrs Hudson has already been called, and he has not visited her recently either."

"Maybe he's out with Sherlock. When's this exam again?"

"It was this afternoon, John. Sherrinford failed to turn up for it. Nor is he with Sally or Sherlock."

Of course Sherlock would be the first person Mycroft would call after Sally. John felt a spike of alarm, as he always did when it seemed one of the children was in strife. He ignored the spike, though: he was aware of it as a visceral, knee-jerk response and unless there were weapons involved, he tended to ignore those until more information was in.

Still. Mycroft never called for no reason.

"When did your surveillance lose sight of him?"

"The car took him to school and the driver saw him through the gates. When he did not meet the car after school, I called the headmaster, where I learned he had not attended the exam. Naturally I had the whole system reviewed, CCTV and manual suveillance both. He slipped out of school in the morning without being seen."

"Definitely slipped out? Not abducted?" Memories of Ford's 13th birthday party at Holland Park sprang to mind. If he'd been taken, Ford would surely have found a way to make a fuss; leave a trail.

"There are no signs of forced removal. Until evidence appears to the contrary, I must conclude that Sherrinford left school of his own free will and is therefore unharmed. Or..." Mycroft faltered. John could almost hear him swallow hard against a rising parental panic. "Unharmed, as I say. It only remains to find whence he has absented himself."

John remembered absenting himself from school on more than one occasion when he was Ford's age. That was not long after his mother died. He couldn't imagine anything in Ford's life that would parallel that lonely and miserable experience, but clearly something was bothering him.

"Anything happen at home?" John found himself asking. He half expected a brittle denial, but his relationship with Mycroft was not the wary, combative thing it had once been.

"We had a family disagreement last night," Mycroft confessed, "About his future. I believed the matter to have been settled before any of us retired for the night. It appears I was mistaken."

"Was Sally part of the fight?"

"She took my part in the disagreement, yes."

Okay, so Ford wouldn't be running to his mum on this one.

John's phone pinged. He took it from his ear to see a text from Sherlock. _Has Ford come to Baker Street yet? - SH_

 _Looks like he's bunking off. Try Violet,_ John texted back

Because if Ford wasn't running to Mrs Hudson or Sherlock, surely he was running to Violet. She and her mums were staying close to Violet's current school while Mary did research and preliminary planning on a new bridge project and Nirupa was presenting lectures on linguistics and anthropology in a series at the British Library.

"Mycroft, Sherlock's texted, he's trying Violet and her mums."

"That has already proven fruitless," said Mycroft as another message pinged in. _He's not there - SH_

"Right." John's own flutter of parental panic surged then settled into the familiar sting of adrenalin and crystal clear thought. "Send Sally to Mary's, I'll meet you and Sherlock there after I have a word with Mrs Hudson. We’ll brainstorm some possibilities, work out a search pattern and go from there."

"Thank you, John." The brittleness of Mycroft's tone was more marked now.

"Ford will be fine, Mycroft. He's smart and resourceful, and he's clearly got a plan, or he wouldn't have evaded your security." John had a few things to say about how a teenaged boy might feel about the constant surveillance, but this wasn't the time to share those thoughts. "He's just done a bunk to think about things. I used to do the same."

"Sherrinford does not..."

"He's a teenager, Mycroft. He broods. We just have to work out where he's gone to do it. He'll be fine."

Mycroft's silence was practically roaring _he'd better be._

John rang off, shot a quick _Meet you at Mary's_ to Sherlock and grabbed his coat. The plan was to dash downstairs, let Mrs Hudson know what was going on, see if she had any ideas, make sure she knew to call if Ford showed up, then be on his way. Perhaps Violet had some idea where the boy might have taken himself to have a sulk over the direction of his life, or any of the underlying issues that had sparked the argument.

John was not Ford, but John certainly knew that there was often more than one cause for wagging school. Fiona Watson’s death had been the trigger for his own truancy, but that had come with a host of related issues: his father's grief and heaving drinking; Harry's steps down that same road; his own confused guilt that he couldn't do more, that he hadn't died in her place, that he made his father angry, got into fights, lost some of them, feared he would hurt someone badly, feared he was bad and deserved the way he's lost his mother and how his family had fallen apart.

He was a grown man now. That turmoil was long past, and while Ford wasn't dealing with loss on that scale, something was obviously upsetting him. Ford was a level headed boy. If he had gone to the effort to skip an important exam, lose his surveillance and drop off the grid, there'd be a good reason. Or at least, a reason Ford thought was good.

And if he was just having an infantile sulk, well, there'd be words about that too, in due course.

 _Where would he go?_ John thought as he started down the stairs. John himself used to go down to the stream in the park where his Gran took him when he was small. He could be alone there, but feel comforted with the memory of someone who had loved him without question. He could be alone but not lonely. He could think, or not think, and let the sound of the water become a white noise to settle his agitation. It was a kind of meditation.

_Where would Ford...? Oh._

John paused half way down the stairs. Well, it was a long shot, but worth a look. It wouldn't take long, and if he was wrong, only a few minutes were lost to checking.

John returned to the flat, continued up to the top level with his own room and a small landing that led to a storage cupboard. A window stood between his door and the cupboard. John tugged it open and climbed over the windowsill onto the rooftop.

He heard the soft intake of breath and the stillness where the call of pigeons should have been audible.

"Don't run off, Ford," said John quietly.

"No point now," said Ford, his voice choked.

John's tread was light, a habit of both stealth and gentleness, so as not to alarm the boy. He carefully made his way across the flat portion of the roof to where the tiles sloped down towards the eaves. Ford was sitting hunched next to the chimney. He was sitting on his school blazer, with his shirt rumpled and his hair in wild disarray, like it got when he succumbed to his stress habit of pulling at his own curls in an attempt to still his mind. His dark skin was flushed, his eyes bloodshot. He'd clearly been crying.

"You climbed up from the alley," observed John.

"There are lots of blind spots in the CCTV cameras on the street behind," said Ford, still in that voice thick with tears, "Especially if I use back gardens instead of the street. And Sherlock always smashes the one in Baker Street. It's easy."

John, who had been forced to climb both up and down from that rooftop on more than one occasion, would take issue with that 'easy' part. It even gave Sherlock pause at times; though to be fair, Ford was 15 and Sherlock was approaching 50.

"Your dad is worried about you."

"He's mad at me, you mean."

"He'll be that too, later. Right now he's just worried. We all are."

Ford's inelegant snort was a bit wet. He wiped his running nose on his shirtsleeve.

"Worried I'm not going to be a good little Holmes and do what I'm told?"

"I know Holmeses," said John, "The concept of 'a good little Holmes' doesn't apply to any of the ones I've met."

Ford managed to sound amused with the next snort of laughter, and then the laugh turned into a sort of sob.

"I've been a good little Holmes," he said, "I've tried. I try to do what they want. But I don't want to be what they want."

"What's that?"

"You know." Ford scowled at John. "You want it too."

"I'm pretty sure I have no idea what you're talking about." John picked his way across the roof and sat himself down an arm's length away from the boy. He kept his arms to himself for the time being.

"You want me to be brilliant and solve things. You want me to be like Sherlock."

"That's not..."

"Sherlock wants me to be like him, too. Dad wants me to be less like Sherlock and more like him, but I'm not. Mum wants me to be more normal."

John bit down a retort on definitions of 'normal'. "Nobody wants to make you into someone you're not, Ford."

"Liar."

John rested his elbows on his drawn up knees. "I'm not lying to you. Your family wants you to be happy. That's all we want for you."

"Only if it's the right kind of happy,” Ford’s scowl was masking a more vulnerable response, “It’s only if I study all the right subjects and ace all the right exams and _know_ all the right things and _be_ all the right things and _say_ all the right things, and I don't. I almost never do. I mess things up. I say stuff that people think is weird. I don't say things they think I should say. They want me to pretend to be things I'm not, and they want me to _be_ things I'm not."

It was painful, how some of the things Ford said sounded like some of the things that Sherlock never said.

“I don’t **_want_** to study human biology and anatomy,” Ford went on, voice caught between petulance and grief, “I don’t want to work with dead things and sick things and I haven’t, not since Archimedes, and I know Sherlock didn’t mean it about dissecting him, he wasn’t thinking, and he apologised, and it’s all right, I’m not mad at him, but I don’t _want_ to. _I don’t want to_ , and it’s not just that I don’t want to be Sherlock or you, and anyway, Violet wants to be a doctor, and it’s not even that I don’t want her to think like I’m competing with her, but _I don’t want that_. I want _bigger_ things, _huge things_ , like whole ecosystems of things, like on the Mars colony, and how they’re trying to make terraforming work and even if they can, it’s not a career, Dad says. He says it’s too dangerous and it’s not a career path at all, and I’d have to be a specialist in so many areas and invent my own job, and I _know_ he doesn’t want me to be like Sherlock that way, I _know_ he’s worried, but it’s what I _want_. _It’s what I want_ , John. It’s the _only_ thing I want and Dad doesn’t want me to do it and Sherlock doesn’t want me to do it and Mum doesn’t like the idea of me being on another planet, but I’d have to go there, and they don’t, they won’t let me, they…” Ford’s hands were fisted in his hair again, tugging sharply as his breathing turned ragged, trying to make his brain slow down.

At last he stoppered the fountain of words, while John watched helplessly. He knew he couldn’t touch Ford when he was like this. It was too much for the boy. Too much input. Violet usually could, but she wasn’t here.

Ford took a shuddering breath. "I'm not Sherlock,” he continued bitterly, “I'm not Dad. I'm not Mum. I can't be like them. I can't be what they want. I don’t want to be. I’m _me_. I’m just _me_. Even if I’m still a kid and I’m still working it out. I’m still. Just. Me. Why isn’t that enough?”

"It _is_ enough, Ford," John reassured him, "You are your own self already, and we’re very proud of you. It doesn't matter what your parents want you to study, what job they think you should want to have. You're Sherrinford Holmes. You're from a family of rampant individualists. You'll be wholly yourself, I promise you.”

What the boy said next, half muttered, almost inaudible, almost broke John's heart.

"What if nobody likes who that is?" It was said in the smallest voice.

"We love you, Ford. We love who you are. We love who you’re becoming as you grow, and we will always love you."

"You love that I'm like Sherlock." Ford's voice was so small and so angry and so sad.

"You're not _that_ much like Sherlock," said John. Ford gave him a sceptical look, even through the renewed tears. "Okay, you're a _bit_ like him, but that's not why I love you." The sceptical look grew more intense.

"You're kind," said John, "And you're thoughtful. And god knows I love your father like he's my own blood, but those are not words generally bandied about when describing Sherlock. He can be both, of course, when he can be bothered to make the effort. You are effortlessly kind."

Ford blinked at him.

"You're funny, too. And a canny little schemer, which I probably shouldn't admit I quite like about you. Don't think I don't know who's behind half the pranks you and Violet get up to. More than half." John grinned at the boy, a twinkle of mischief in his own eyes. "And let's talk about sharing, for a moment. I've never known a kid who wants to tell everyone everything so much." Ford began to look wounded, and John barrelled on, "I am not saying you talk too much, Ford. What I'm saying is that when you learn something new, you get so excited that you want everyone else to know it too. You can't help it. You want everyone to be as excited as you are, and if they can't keep up with you, you do something Sherlock and your dad almost never do. You slow down and you explain. And you do it without being patronising. I've seen you with Mrs Hudson. I've seen you with Mary and Nirupa. God knows I've seen you with Violet, ever since you could talk."

Ford settled, with a thoughtful look on his face.

"You're very responsive to other people, too. Very open to them. You play, what is it, four instruments now? But you play the violin when you're here because you know it makes Sherlock happy that you both have that. When you're at home you play the piano, because you know how much your Dad wants to see himself in you, at least a little. And you dance with your mum, because she doesn't sing or play and you don't want her to feel left out."

"I... I didn't think anyone noticed that."

"When you do that – when you reach out to each of your parents like that – it always feels like you’re showing them how much you love them. You can't help being a bit like them, you know. You can’t help nature and nurture. You're a bit hyperactive like Sherlock, and you're forward thinking like your Dad, and you are strong like your Mum. But you're funny and thoughtful exactly like yourself. Don't think for a moment we don't know that. Don't think for one second that we don't love you for the things that make you uniquely yourself."

"Violet doesn't."

And oh, _there_ it was. There it bloody was.

"Violet loves you, Ford."

"She's dating that boy from her school."

"You're practically her brother."

"That’s not… I mean..." he shrugged miserably, "She’d rather spend time with him than me. She doesn't love me like that. I'm not good enough."

"It's not that kind of love, Ford."

"I think I’m too smart, and she doesn't want to be with someone who's too smart. I know I think too fast and talk too fast and I'm weird. I know I am. Violet didn't used to mind but now she does. Why would she stop visiting, otherwise? Why does she want to go out with _him_? Why does she prefer his company to mine? She won't visit this weekend because she's got a date with _Bryan_ , she says. With some horrid boy from her school who plays rugby. It's horrible. It’s appalling. It's not fair." He began to cry again. "She's my best friend and she doesn't want to spend time with me anymore."

Finally, John reached out. He put his hand on Ford's shoulder, then shuffled closer, reaching out to him and the next thing the boy had thrown himself into John’s arms and started sobbing. John wrapped his arms around Ford's skinny shoulders and pulled him close, rubbing his cheek against Ford’s wild curls.

So it was loss that brought them here, after all, and the fear of loss. Things that drive you to loneliness and to find places where you once felt less alone. Ford and Violet used to come up to the roof to giggle and plot and gossip, when they were little. They hadn't done it a while: not since Violet had begun this new secondary school.

John decided it was high time he had a serious talk with Mary and Nirupa about what was going on with their daughter.

John’s pocket buzzed with a muffled rendition of the old lullaby. Anyone else’s call he would have ignored, but this was (to Violet’s professed horror) Violet’s personalised ring tone. Ford stopped crying and held his breath instead.

With one arm still wrapped around Ford’s shoulders, John fished the phone out of his pocket.

“ _Have you found him, Dad?_ Sherlock and Sally say he’s missing and I’ve been calling and calling and he’s not answering his phone…”

“Violet…”

“Is he there? Please tell me he’s with you, Daddy. It’s not like Sherry to take off. Not without me. If he’s going to skive off he skives off with me, and he never called. He always calls me. God, what if he’s…”

“Violet, it’s fine…”

“ _It’s not fine._ What if he’s in trouble and I’m not there to help? What if he’s…?”

“He’s here. Ford’s right here, baby girl, and he’s just fine. I promise you. Now breathe.”

“Put him on! Put him on!”

John held the phone out to Ford, who blinked owlishly at him through wet lashes, then grabbed the phone gracelessly and pressed it to his ear.

“Violet?” Ford’s voice was thick and he stopped to clear his throat. John could hear Violet’s frantic, bossy reply with hardly any effort.

“Sherry, where have you _been_? What didn’t you answer your phone? I’ve been worried sick!”

“I dropped my phone when I climbed onto your dads’ roof,” said Ford sheepishly, “It’s smashed up in the alley.”

“Is that why Uncle My’s tracker didn’t work? Oh, stupid me, of course, you took the latest one out again last week, didn’t you? I don’t know why he bothers. You always work out how to disarm them. I told Bryan about how you got rid of the last one with a hairpin and a battery made out of potatoes.”

Ford’s expression darkened. “Why do you care where I was anyway?” he snarled, “Don’t you have your bloody _Bryan_ to talk to instead?”

“You don’t have to be rude about Bryan. He’s a bit of a twonk, I know, but he wants to meet you. He says since I talk about you so much he should see if you’re as fabtacular as I say. I think he’s jealous of you.”

“If I’m so _fabtacular_ how come you don’t visit any more?”

“Sherry, I have exams, and fencing practice and Rupe is giving me tuition in Italian and oh god, you know what school’s like, even if you’re better at it than anyone I know. I’m just busy. I’m coming around at the end of term, in two weeks, like I said.”

“You used to come around all the time, and now you can’t? _I_ could help with homework. _I_ could help with your Italian. You just don’t want to see me. You’ve got _Bryan_ now. What do you need _me_ for?”

“Oh, don’t be an _idiot_ , Sherry,” Violet snapped, her irritation loud and clear, and then suddenly the ire turned to an exasperated fondness, “Sherry, you dope, is that what you’re upset about? God, don’t be. Bryan’s all right but he’s a bit of a numpty, to tell the truth. He’s kind of fun when he’s not lowering the IQ of the whole _school_. Bryan was just for dates, and I can’t visit this weekend because I’m going to _split up_ with him after school on Friday. It’s going to be _horrifico_. But honestly, what choice do I have? I just found out he thinks the Mars colony is fake and that the King abdicated because of _aliens_ , when you and I both know that was your _Dad_. Sherry, you twonk, you’re _family._ You’re my best friend. You’re _forever_.”

“Oh.”

And that, John thought, was the shortest sentence he had ever heard Ford utter.

He nodded that the boy should continue talking with Violet, then John clambered back through the window to go down to Mrs Hudson’s flat, where he assured her that Ford was just fine. After a brief explanation, Mrs Hudson made up a big plate of biscuits and cakes and took them upstairs while John used her phone to text the _mater_ and _patres familias._

_Ford is at Baker Street and fine. Having a bit of a cry. Combined abandonment/identity crisis. Give him some space for a while. He’s talking to Violet so crisis a) is dealt with. Needs work on crisis b). - JW_

Almost immediately, texts pinged back acknowledgement, but it was, surprisingly, Sherlock who phoned.

“He evaded Mycroft’s surveillance for a whole day, John.” Sherlock’s tone was thrumming with pride.

“Yeah. Brilliant. Because we can all use the occasional panic attack to remind us we’re alive.” John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, I know there’s a certain amount of risk inherent in having the parents he has, but maybe we can talk to Sally and Mycroft about this whole stalking their son 24-7 thing, yeah?”

“I have tried.” A heavy pause. “I’ll try again. I’ll remind him of how little effect it had on me.”

“Good. Yeah. And. I don’t know how angry Mycroft is at him right now, but Ford has some things he needs to get off his chest.”

“Such as the fact that he is neither Mycroft nor me, and needs to be his own person. Crisis b).”

John grinned into the phone. “Such as, yes.”

“And crisis a) was about Violet, I suppose?”

“Yeah,” more sombrely, “But they seem to be working that out.”

“As long as it’s not like…” Sherlock stumbled slightly, “Not like it is with me.”

For a moment, John wanted nothing more than to shake Violet until her teeth rattled, and she saw sense over how much her snubbing of Sherlock was hurting him.

“I think they’re solid, Sherlock.”

“Good. Good.”

“Make some time to talk to Ford though, yeah? Make sure he knows you’re not going to be disappointed in him if he doesn’t take up dead bodies and solving crime.”

“On my way home now.” The connection went dead and John took the phone back upstairs with him.

Ford was sitting with Mrs Hudson in the kitchen, eating biscuits, drinking hot chocolate and sheepishly putting up with a scolding for making everyone worry so much. The scolding lost most of its effectiveness with the way Mrs Hudson kept stopping to hug Ford and ply him with baked goods.

“Am I in much trouble?” Ford asked John tightly.

“I imagine so,” said John, helping himself to a biscuit, “But you’ll handle it. You’re a Holmes.”

Ford grimaced. Then grinned. “And a Donovan. A rampant individualist, right?”

“The rampantest,” John agreed.

“Rampantest isn’t a word.”

“Eat your biscuit.”

“ _You’re_ a rampant individualist,” Ford accused.

Mrs Hudson flicked the boy with a tea towel. “You’re all twelve kinds of trouble, every last one of you.” John was impressed that she’d settled for as little as twelve kinds. She stopped to drop a kiss on Ford’s head. “Silly boy. Next time you’re upset, just come to me, all right?”

Ford closed his eyes and leaned into her slight body. “Yes, Mrs H. I promise. I’m sorry I worried you.”

John watched as Mrs Hudson kissed Ford’s hair, and as Ford patted his grandma’s hand.  There would be uncomfortable times ahead, John knew, but he also knew that it would be all right. There might be fighting and clashes over his educational choices and his future career, but Ford had everyone on his side, whether he realised it or not.

Violet, too, would come around, John was sure. She’d grow up, sometime soon, and realise she was hurting Sherlock, just as she’d realised today she was hurting Ford. He just hoped that nobody would have to end up in hospital before she understood.

**Author's Note:**

> This story references [There's A Hole Where Something Was](http://archiveofourown.org/works/522693/chapters/954486) (the story of Violet's estrangement and reconnection with Sherlock) and A Death in the Family (the death of Archimedes the goldfish).
> 
> I can't remember who prompted with a request for a story about John and Ford, but whoever you are, I hope you like this.


End file.
